


Femlock Ficlets

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Femlock, Femslash, Genderswap, Lesbian Sex, PWP, and having sex, and with more orgasms per square foot than I've ever read when they're men, but sexier you know?, even in the most optimistic fics, it's just like when they're men, really explicit PWP, they're women, woman loving woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:39:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is usually active in bed - John would go so far as to say <i>pushy</i>, not that she's complaining, oh, my, no. But every once in a while - like tonight - Sherlock lets John know that she needs a different kind of attention, and John is only too happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Pure gratuitous femslash, first posted on Tumblr.

And now Sherlock was stretched out on the bed, head thrown back, fingers working restlessly in the bedsheets, _wanting._ John took a moment to just _look_ at her because, god, this woman was… _otherworldly._

_This_ , this trembling, ready Sherlock, taut with arousal and anticipation, this was what John wanted. More than orgasm, more even than bringing Sherlock off. (Bringing her off _again_ and _again_ and _again_ ; John knew well that when she was in this state, Sherlock could have orgasm after orgasm, each one more powerful than the one before.) John wanted to draw out _this_ mood, _this_ moment. Make it last.

She’d known as soon as she’d kissed her that this was going to be long, long and intense. At the very first hint of escalation, Sherlock’s mouth had gone soft under John’s, opening slightly to allow whatever John might choose, but then waiting, pliant and hollow, to follow where John might lead.

She was  intoxicating like this. It didn’t happen often. Sherlock was nothing if not confident in bed. Pushy. Imperious.  John loved it. She loved having a partner who could meet her  blow for metaphorical blow, who would not wither under John’s own forcefulness, but push back and allow their pleasure and desire to spiral ever higher. She did not have to hold back with Sherlock.

Once in a while, though, after a case, perhaps, or after she’d been composing for a long stretch, Sherlock would go yielding, almost docile. John had learned that if she handled these times properly, the result could be more explosive than even their most exuberant clashes.

So there she was on the bed, eyes closed, and any touch from John would make her vibrate like one of her violin’s strings.

John knelt beside her and prepared to play.

A kiss, then, to start, Sherlock’s mouth soft and plump, accepting, acquiescing, her breath light and damp. Then down to her impossible throat, leaving delicate kisses that nevertheless left a rosy path on Sherlock’s sensitive skin.

As John lingered by Sherlock’s collarbone, she brought her left hand up her long flank, feeling dip of waist and lift of ribs. Sherlock shivered under her caress, and when John’s palm rose higher to cup the swell of her right breast, Sherlock sucked in a long breath and let it out her open mouth. _Lovely._

John returned her mouth to Sherlock’s, and kissed, and kissed, and kissed. She kept the kisses gentle – lips, but not too hard, sucks, but not too deep, tongue, but only brushing, _brushing_ , sweet little licks and sips, changing the angle, changing the approach, not pushing, not plunging. _Don’t escalate._

She pulled her head away, and Sherlock made a little noise, and jerked her chin, as if trying to follow.

“Shh, lie still, sweetheart. It’s ok.” She rested a soothing hand high on Sherlock’s chest until the detective subsided.

Now John teased her fingers along both sides of Sherlock’s ribcage, running up to the soft undersides of her breasts. She stroked there, a sweep of fingertips, until she could see Sherlock’s tension mounting, and then brought the fingers of her right hand up to circle her lover’s dark nipple.

First with one hand, then the other, John teased lightly at the dark nubs of Sherlock’s small breasts. There was a particular movement that Sherlock adored, John spreading her fingertips like the points of a star, all around Sherlock’s nipple, then drawing upwards with a twist, light, so light, brushing past the nipple on the way up, but not lingering, then down again for another pass.

(Sherlock had told her, once, laughingly, that it reminded her of the movement of the metal claw inside the machine at the supermarket that reaches down to grasp a toy, and John had been distracted by the image of her own hand on the joystick, guiding the claw down to scrape lightly up the sides of Sherlock’s breast.)

(Sherlock wasn’t laughing now.)

Sherlock’s breasts were incredibly sensitive. Given the right set of circumstances (which seemed to include not just mood, energy levels and point of her cycle but also wind direction and phase of the moon), she could come just like this. John wanted that, wanted to see Sherlock gasp and buck and clench just from John’s steady hands on her breasts.

She kept up her alternating claw movement, maintaining speed and pressure, and let Sherlock’s own tension take care of the build-up. As the detective’s breathing became shallower, John added a firmer touch to the nipple as she pulled away, a squeeze, not quite a pinch, and the barest twist before her fingers were gone again.

Sherlock had begun to make delicious little noises as John worked, little gasps, little not-quite-words, _oh_ and _unh_ and _Jo-_ and _ye-,_ and John began to speed up, ever so slightly.

And now Sherlock’s whole body began  to quiver and rock, pressing into John’s touch as it moved from side to side.  John could see the tremor in her thighs. She knew Sherlock was feeling this pleasure through her whole body, and it was _amazing._

John could feel her own arousal beginning to swell, her own nipples tingling in sympathy, the wetness starting to work through her own vulva. She knew if she touched herself her clitoris would be swollen – _just_ nicely, _just_ plump – and slippery. Time enough for that later.

But Sherlock’s tremors were turning to shudders now. Her little words were becoming louder, more desperate.

“John, John, oh, this is – this is – oh, John…”

“Tell me, sweetheart.”

_“I like this so much.”_

John smiled. “I know you do. And you’re absolutely beautiful right now.”

Another twist and squeeze and she tensed right up, her sounds going high pitched and sustained. With one hand, John continued the steady scrape and twist that had brought Sherlock this far, and at the same time leaned down and took Sherlock’s other nipple in her mouth, circling her tongue, grasping the peaked nipple between tongue and teeth. One more flick, one more nip, and –

“Oh. _Oh. OH. Oh, John, yes, Jo – “_ Sherlock’s hips rose, her shoulders drew up, and her orgasm washed over her.

_Beautiful._

And John had only touched her breasts.

_So far._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's only had one orgasm so far, but in fairness, most of her body hasn't been touched yet. But John is on the job, and she's nothing if not thorough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PWP like it says in the tags. This really is all there is to it.

John gave Sherlock the space of a few panting breaths to recover, lying beside her and kissing her mouth, her cheek, her eyelids. She knew she would run out of time to play with Sherlock’s breasts, that oversensitivity would set in after a while, but she thought that if she did not overdo it, she might have at least until Sherlock’s next orgasm.

She left them alone for now, trailing her hand up and down Sherlock’s side, then lower, over her hip to her thigh, drawing little circles with her fingertips. Sherlock’s muscle tensed, and John changed from light touches to deeper massage, taking in the whole muscle into the motion.

Raising her own body for leverage, she brought both hands into play, kneading and massaging both thighs. John’s thumbs swept down between the thighs on each pass, and she slowly circled her strokes higher and higher until her thumbs brushed Sherlock’s curly dark thatch each time they circled.

It was the lightest touches that affected Sherlock the most when she was in this state, and John kept herself firmly under control. It was difficult not to dive right in as Sherlock’s thighs quivered and spread, but John knew if she let Sherlock’s pleasure build on its own, the result would be…spectacular.

Because now Sherlock was pushing her own legs apart, with no encouragement from John, and the movement allowed the lips of her vulva to just part. Sherlock was not wide open, not yet, but she was starting to emerge, to get slick and full. John knew what awaited her, though it was still hidden. There was a crisp of hair, and through it, a glimpse of pink.

“Oh, look at you, my lovely, lovely girl. So ready for me, aren’t you?” John hovered her fingers just off the skin of Sherlock’s labia, brushing the hair, but not touching the skin. Sherlock whined. “Oh, do you like that, love? Shall I touch you? Would you like my fingers on you? Would you like me to touch you in there, closer?”

“Yes, John, _yes_.”

John dragged her fingertips up the seam of Sherlock’s outer labia, feeling the coarse hair, the silky skin. “Yes?”

“Yes, _please.”_

John’s fingers did not press, but only ran up and down the slit, back and forth. John was careful to apply no extra pressure as she did so, but somehow, with each pass, Sherlock’s labia parted slightly. First, the brush of hair, second, the silk of skin, the hint of heat, third, the slightest lick of wetness, until finally, fourth, parting and _slick slick slick._

John’s fingertip was inside the warm pocket now, and as she drew it to the tip, _oh,_ there was Sherlock’s hot, wet clitoris, full and waiting. John swallowed a moan as she felt it twitch under her touch.

“Oh, yes, dear. There we are. God, you should feel this. You’re incredibly hot, my love.”

John kept up the same steady, repetitive strokes, but this time along the inner labia, flowing lightly up to the tip of her clit. Sherlock made a small sound when John got to the tip, a brief sound, but a _w_ _anting_ sound. Her hips began to rock on their own, in small, thrusting motions, meeting John’s finger each time it came to the apex of its pathway.

John lingered, then, at the tip of the little bundle of nerve endings, and circled there once, then stayed almost completely still, applying only the barest pressure and allowing the movement of Sherlock’s hips to control the touch.

And they did, rocking and thrusting, pressing and holding, sidling left or right, then falling away again. Sherlock moved her pelvis to chase her own pleasure, not speeding up, not pushing, not escalating, just steadily seeking the sensations she craved.

“That’s it, love, you take over. You show me what you need. That’s right, that’s good.”

John loved Sherlock like this, so soft and so tremulous, and yet so aware of her own desires. John did not need to drive her when she was like this, John did not need to advance or accelerate, she just needed to place her fingers just _so,_ or her mouth just _so_ , and allow Sherlock’s pleasure to blossom around her.

And so it did. “John,” Sherlock whispered, as she moved and thrust. “John, this is – ”

“More?”

“A little.” Sherlock was thrumming now, getting closer to her climax, humming like – John could not shake the image of Sherlock’s violin, and its taut, vibrating strings.

With one finger just resting on Sherlock’s clitoris, John pulled the fingers of her other hand through the pooling wetness of Sherlock’s opening, and then reached her moistened fingers up to rest on one peaked nipple. Two discrete points of contact, and hardly any pressure, but Sherlock tensed, and her breath caught, and:

“Oh, oh, oh, yes, John, yes, oh, just – not too hard, but just pinch, just a little pinch – ”

And then John did, and Sherlock came, and came, and came.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maintaining the delicate movement of tongue and lips, John brought her hand up and curled two fingers into Sherlock’s opening, flicking and scissoring as they entered. The squelch and flow of Sherlock’s wetness in her hand and the smell and feel of it in her mouth were almost too much for John. _My turn next_ , she thought, but did not falter.

_Beautiful_.

John could not stop thinking the word, it swirled in her head, it danced around Sherlock’s body. Sometimes John imagined the way Sherlock must see crime scenes and suspects and strangers and John herself, the observations and deductions scrolling past her eyes as she took in every detail at a glance. But Sherlock was a genius; John was content to be just herself, no incisive observations or devastating conclusions, just the one word, _beautiful,_ scrawled along the curve of a long white throat, etched in the span of an arched back, scribed between spread and trembling thighs, the ink still wet and glistening.

Sherlock had come twice already, two rolling, tidal orgasms that had risen slowly and crested with a surge of power. She lay there now, letting the last waves wash over her as the intensity of her climax ebbed.

John’s right hand idly stroked the underside of Sherlock’s breast as she settled from her orgasm, staying well away from the nipple for now, and her left hand wove lightly through her pubic hair – keeping contact, but avoiding anything too intense.

Even as she recovered, Sherlock did not stir, did not move to raise her body and try to reciprocate, and for this John was grateful. Sherlock was more than capable of intense generosity in bed, but at the moment, with Sherlock’s body the way it was, pulsating with arousal, the only thing for either of them to do was to see it through. If she were to attempt to turn the tables now, out of some misguided sense of mutuality, the entire build-up they’d worked for would be lost.

No, Sherlock understood her body and its desires, and trusted that John would understand as well. There was no _should_ or _ought_ between them.

Now Sherlock’s breathing steadied, and John’s touch became firmer on her mons, and on the soft skin of her breast. Sherlock opened her eyes and gazed at John, the glittering irises hooded and dark.

John smiled at her. “Doing all right?” she asked, trailing a finger lightly through the wetness that slicked her vulva, making a wide circle around the tip of her clitoris, avoiding direct contact.

A slow, curling grin. “Yeah.”

“Ready for more?”

An eager spark. _“Yeah.”_

_Time to re-engage, then._ John positioned herself between Sherlock’s legs and reached both hands up to her jaw (Sherlock’s own wetness smeared on her face. _Dirty._ A little. _Gorgeous._ ) and ran her palms down the smooth skin.

Neck, shoulders, arms. Back to shoulders, down the sides of her torso, smoothing over breasts and belly, pressing sides, hips, thighs. Hands hooking under knees, drawing them up and apart, letting them fall to the sides.

Letting the splay of Sherlock’s long legs draw apart her outer labia, laying open her damp centre. _Beautiful._

Gentle, John reminded herself. Light. _Understated._ Sherlock did not need to be driven. Her arousal had its own momentum tonight.

John bent her head and ran her nose up through the hair on one side of Sherlock’s cleft, then the other. The feel of the wet on the end of her nose, oh god, the rich raw _smell_ of her, made John suddenly, almost painfully aware of her own state of arousal. Her nipples were tingling, her breasts were flushed and full, and her pelvic muscle was twitching and fluttering. _Soon._ She had plans for her own pleasure, but now –

John licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, and left her tongue resting there, on her lower lip, just the tip. This she drew up the centre line of Sherlock’s parted vulva, to the pulsing tip, and then again, and again. A slow kitten lick up the seam, then a firm press, tip of tongue to tip of clit.

Again. Lick, press, lick, press. Her tongue just barely out of her softly open mouth, so that her moistened lips brushed hair and labia as they passed. The taste would drive her mad soon, but she kept herself rigidly to the steady pace she set, knowing that when Sherlock was ready –

_Ah._ Once again, Sherlock’s hips began to move, but whereas before she’d been thrusting against the tip of John’s finger, now she was thrusting into her _mouth._ It was a thousand times sexier. John moaned against Sherlock’s vulva, _so good,_ pressing her lips in deep, allowing herself a single broad swipe of her tongue, mouth open, lips grasping. _Delicious. So, so sweet._

Then back, soft licks, delicate lips, tip of tongue.

In response, Sherlock’s hips began to rock the barest bit faster, and she tilted and arched, seeking the best contact. Her pelvis tilted right back so that her clit stayed tip-to-tip with John’s tongue, _pressing, pressing,_ a tiny circle, a tiny flutter of movement, almost imperceptible but Sherlock cried out at the feel of it.

Her rhythm was turning erratic now. She needed more and she wasn’t getting it. John brought a thumb up to Sherlock’s seeping opening and circled the entrance, round and round, barely dipping her thumb inside.

_“John, yes,”_ Sherlock moaned, and with another tilt of her body, seated herself down on John’s thumb. Her groan was deep and heartfelt.

“Good girl, good girl. Oh, that’s lovely. You like that, yeah? You needed that. Something inside you. Would you like me to touch you inside? Would you like my fingers now, love?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, John, please.”

Maintaining the delicate movement of tongue and lips, John brought a hand up and curled two fingers into Sherlock’s opening, flicking and scissoring as they entered. The squelch and flow of Sherlock’s wetness in her hand and the smell and feel of it in her mouth were almost too much for John. _My turn next_ , she thought, but did not falter.

And then she twisted her fingers in _just_ the right place, curled, pressed, and at the same time closed her lips around the small, slick swollen mound of nerve-endings and _sucked,_ just barely, just barely _sucked –_

And Sherlock’s thighs closed around her head, _squeezed_ around her head _(the slide of vulva, the throb of clitoris, the clench of her pleasure around John’s hand)_ , and muffled the sounds of her shouts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's turn. She's earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're still women. They're still having sex. You're still reading, so clearly you don't object to either of those facts.

After several long, shuddering moments, Sherlock’s thighs eased away from the sides of John’s head, and her breathing steadied. She had come, for the third time that night, in small precise thrusts against John’s mouth, with John’s lips closed gently around her slick, swollen citoris, and two of John’s fingers curled inside her.

She now lay, open and languid, her knees falling to the sides. Her eyes were closed and a small, soft smile played around her gently parted lips.

Everything about Sherlock was _on_ now. Far from done, far from _sated,_ she lay there, still, but with the blood singing in her veins and her skin almost aglow with tactility.

John – given to analogy – thought of purring engines, warm and running smoothly, or old-fashioned radios whose tubes took time to thrum fully to life before the music would emerge, or campfires burned down low and hot. Sherlock’s arousal smouldered and glowed like embers. It would burn on for some time now with very little stoking. _John’s turn._

A trail of kisses brought John from the warm skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, over the pale silk of her belly, along the too-prominent ribs. She dragged her tongue along where the texture of the skin changed, between where it stretched over bones and where it swelled around a soft breast, and nuzzled into the warmth there, sliding her hand up to the other breast and cradling the very base of its curve.

John murmured into Sherlock’s skin.,“You’re absolutely gorgeous right now. So hot. Feeling all right?”

“Mmm.” A cat smile, eyes almost shut.

Ah. _Non-verbal_ , or almost. John allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation.

She brought her hand down again to cup Sherlock’s vulva, dipping a finger to press her swollen clitoris, delighting in the slick juiciness and in the little twitches of Sherlock’s hips as she sought a flicker more of pressure.

“You like that, do you? You’re so bloody sexy. I could play with you like this all night. I’m incredibly turned on, just so you know.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock perked up at this and made an attempt at opening her eyes.

“Yeah. You guessed it. My turn. All right?”

Sherlock nodded, shifted, made as if to rise, but John pushed her back down. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m still driving. Just hold still until I tell you.”

Sherlock’s hand lay open on the edge of the bed. By lining herself up and planting one foot on the floor, John could settle her vulva right into Sherlock’s open palm. When she did, the response was instantaneous and explosive.

“ _Oh, John.”_ Sherlock’s hand curled and rocked against John’s own warm, slippery clit. Her strokes were long and firm, feeling along the whole the length of John’s folds. She pressed and cupped with the heel of her hand so that John could feel the pressure at her tip, and also all along her wings, providing both direct and diffuse sensation and causing her to throw back her head with a breathy gasp.

She raised her body slightly, backing off the pressure. _Too much._ “Fingers only, please, ” she said, before settling back down.

Sherlock complied eagerly, pulling back her arm to draw her fingertips over and around John’s clit, letting the small, swollen mound slip and roll between them. She turned her hand over and grasp John’s sensitive nub lightly, _oh_ , so lightly, between her thumb and two fingers, barely twisting, almost _tugging_ , little maddening pulls as the pads of her fingers shifted and slithered over the slick, sensitive skin.

Pull, release, pull, release, and then with another twist and a long slide, two fingers were buried deep inside John. She thrust down onto them.

“ _Ah._ That’s it, _oh, yeah,_ that’s right. Now the whole hand again.” And she was once again resting in Sherlock’s palm, rocking and thrusting to meet her firm strokes.

Heel of hand, slide of palm, dip of fingers, back and forth, back and forth. John adjusted the rock of her hips to the rhythm of Sherlock’s hand and ground down, seeking her pleasure. The smooth bedding slid against her thigh with every pass.

John’s foot on the floor gave her leverage and control, allowing her to thrust and press at will, and to chase down the contact she needed. Her orgasm built quickly. Not surprising, given how long she’d held herself back. She could feel it beginning to expand in her belly. _Close._

Sherlock brought her other hand to John’s hip, and stroked upward, cupping John’s breast firmly and lifting from below. Her thumb and index finger encircled John’s nipple and traced, around and over.

 _Pinch, stroke, roll_. John’s hips rocked faster and her breath hitched as Sherlock’s fingers kept up their teasing dance.

Then Sherlock shifted her hand so that her thumb pressed directly on John’s plump clitoris, and at the same time curled her fingers just _so_ , just _right_ , just inside…One rock of her wrist, one more – _ah._ John flattened herself into Sherlock’s palm and rocked out her orgasm in wave after wave after wave.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh.” Her breath came out in a small gasp. If Sherlock liked the delicate, barely-there touches of tongue, John liked the firm strokes, wide and messy. Noisy. She liked the sloppy slurps and the open-mouthed kisses, and long, broad licks that pressed and dragged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn yes  
> Plot no

John collapsed over Sherlock, panting, her twitching vulva still resting in Sherlock’s open palm. She had rocked herself to a powerful orgasm, grinding herself down into Sherlock’s hand, arching her breasts up against Sherlock’s fingers, chasing her pleasure at her own will, while Sherlock lay beneath her, willing and pliant and still buzzing from her own orgasms.

Time stretched out on either side of this bright moment. It sometimes happened this way – if she made herself wait, she could draw out one deliciously powerful climax and use it as a stepping stone to the next one, and the next, each more powerful than the last. A gentle thrumming suffused her genitals, telling her that tonight might be one such time.

Sherlock was still high on her own plateau, still pliant and ready, but focused now on John. With a twist of her wrist she withdrew her hand from where it cupped John’s mound and grasped her lover’s hips instead, raising her to the bed.

“Up you come,” she whispered, and John swung her leg up and over until she was straddling Sherlock’s shoulders.

She paused there. “You ready for this?” _Hah._ One look at Sherlock’s swollen lips and flushed cheeks told her that Sherlock was ready for anything.

A sultry version of her usual look of disdain settled over her features. “Obviously,”she said, and with two tugs and a slide down the pillow, she had John’s knees on either side of her head.

 _This._ John adored this, this whole…everything. With Sherlock. When both of them were simply _on_ , and in the moment, and perfectly attuned to one another’s bodies. Sherlock’s body was alive with arousal, riding high on the series of orgasms John had delivered her (hands, mouth, fingers, tongue) and her senses were keen now, keyed up and ready to touch and taste and pleasure John.

And then John’s train of thought was abruptly derailed as Sherlock’s tongue came out for a long, slow swipe, all through the folds of her vulva and up to the tip of her clitoris.

 _“Oh.”_ Her breath came out in a small gasp. If Sherlock liked the delicate, barely-there touches of tongue, John liked the firm strokes, wide and messy. _Noisy_. She liked the sloppy slurps and the open-mouthed kisses, and long, broad licks the pressed and dragged.

Sherlock was not slovenly in anything she did, ever. Everything she touched was done finely and precisely, with an elegant economy of movement that was a joy for John to watch. When she put her mouth to John’s vulva, however, her pride would not allow her to do anything less than exactly what drove John wild. If that meant wet suckling and drool and a slack, dripping tongue, so be it.

She grasped John’s buttocks in both hands and set to her task with diligence.

The first slow lick had John bearing down, and the wet slide of generous lips had her moaning wantonly and rocking her hips into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock tightened her grip on John’s arse, squeezing in time with the swipes of her tongue and guiding the movement of John’s hips.

With a long, shuddering breath, John surrendered herself to the alternating quick sharp shocks and deep rolls of pleasure rising in her body under Sherlock’s tongue. Her forehead rested on her arms, braced against the wall, and her mouth hung open to allow for her rapid, panting breaths.

Her wide-open eyes were trained on Sherlock’s face, what she could see of it, what wasn’t buried and obscured in the folds of John’s labia.

John loved this. There was the physical pleasure of the touches, and then there was the vision of Sherlock, nose deep in John’s pubic hair, with her eyes dark with lust. Her hair was disheveled, and John pictured her mouth swollen and red, her face shiny with wet and saliva.

A flat drag of the tongue across her clitoris, and another, and another, followed by the audible _squish_ of lips pressing down on the swollen flesh.  John pressed back, letting Sherlock’s hands rock her. Sherlock worked her tongue and lips and even – John thought – chin deep into John’s folds, thrashing her head from side to side, spreading the sensation over a wide area but always passing over and over the nub where the feelings were most intense.

John’s hips began to move, faster than Sherlock’s squeezing hands, chasing the sensation, complementing Sherlock’s movement and meeting her on every pass. She could already feel the sensation building with every long slide, but Sherlock wasn’t done.

She slid one hand off John’s bottom and down into her opening, curling two fingers inside, effectively imprisoning John’s clit between the pressure of Sherlock’s fingers on the inside wall and that of her flat tongue on the outside.

John gave a gasp that was almost a shout, and Sherlock pressed again.

She set up an alternating rhythm; fingers, tongue, fingers, tongue, occasionally surprising John by applying both at once, or replacing tongue with lips for a wet, messy kiss that took in all of John’s slippery folds. Then back to her pattern, press, drag, press, drag.

John’s own rhythm sped up, her hips rocking, shamelessly smearing her wide-open labia and her throbbing clit over Sherlock’s mouth and chin, her breath rasping in little sounds with each exhale –

And then Sherlock wrapped her plump lips around John’s whole fat, wet clitoris, and pressed with her fingers and _sucked_ with her mouth –

And John bore down hard on Sherlock’s face and came, hard and wet, spurting fluid down Sherlock’s neck, letting out one guttural cry and breathing harshly through clenched teeth – and then  a second wave that did not allow for sound or breathing at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's been in control up to now, doling out the pleasure to both of them - on her own terms. It's safer that way. After all, if she falls apart, who can she trust to pick up the pieces?

No sooner had the last shudder of John’s orgasm subsided than Sherlock’s lips closed again around her oversensitive clitoris, and her tongue pressed, and she sucked again, hard. John’s hips bucked and jerked, and she slammed her hands against the wall for balance. It was, it was - 

“Too much,” she gasped, or garbled, “Too m - I can’t -” 

“You can,” Sherlock murmured around her small mouthful. “I know you can. Let me - let it happen, love.”

This was…even after so long of being with Sherlock, whom she - _trust issues_  - trusted completely, enough to come in her hand, enough to have Sherlock’s hands on her breasts from below, which she used to _hate,_ from any other lover, and even Sherlock, at the start, enough - _oh god -_ to come in spurts down Sherlock’s chin, wet and messy and _animal,_ and not feel ashamed, even so, this was  _frightening_. 

It was building, it had built, it was roiling and ready, it was _looming._ All of her pelvic muscles were trembling with it, it was rising through her spine and in her fingertips. Her hips - she could not keep them still, they moved in tiny thrusts against where Sherlock held her pulsing clit between her tongue and her upper lip - or was it her teeth? _Oh, god._

The orgasm that was rising within her on the heels of her last climax was not merely strong, it was massive. It would overwhelm her if she let it happen;  _It would tear her flesh from her very bones._  

_Terrifying._

“Let it happen,” Sherlock had said, and now, waiting for assent, her tongue dragged along John’s most sensitive flesh, the movement so tiny, so delicate. The effect would be almost soothing except that every one of John’s nerves was stretched tight and the infinitesimal caress served only to keep her  _right…there._

“I can’t -” 

“You _can.”_

She trembled on the brink, unwilling to back away, afraid to tip over. John had reached this point before, but only rarely. Always before, she’d backed off before it hit. Always, she’d turned the tables and made her partner tremble and howl in her stead. She _loved_  that, having a partner quivering in or under her hands, loved it even more with a woman than a man, and never more than now, with Sherlock, whose pleasure could thrum and vibrate so that John was sure that if only she could pick up the right frequency, there would be music to her arousal, a high, pure, rising note vibrating in the play of tension and release in her finely drawn body…

The point was, when Sherlock did it, it was beautiful. For John, though, it was just messy. _Silly_. No, more than that. It felt dangerous.  _Too much._  Uncontrolled. _Chaos._ If John let go like that, she would fly apart, fly away in all directions, and there would be no one to bring her back again.

“John.” Her awareness snapped back in time to meet Sherlock’s eyes; they were wide and dark and earnest, there between her knees. “I’ve got you. Please. _Please._  Let me - give me this.” 

_Give me this_. As if there was anything Sherlock could ask for that John would refuse her. As if there were anything she would not risk, if Sherlock asked.

She held Sherlock’s gaze a moment longer, took a breath, then gave a short nod. 

It was all Sherlock needed. Her soft lips closed around John’s full clit, and the end of her tongue came to rest, barely, on the tip. John’s whole body snapped taut at the contact. Sherlock held her every nerve between her lips, kept them steady with the lightest touch of tongue, held them poised and trembling with anticipation. 

She tightened her mouth, and _pressed_  with her tongue, and sucked, and sucked, and _sucked,_ and it was incredible, and she was sure she couldn’t bear it - 

_(I’ve got you. Please. And John had nodded.)_

The tremors in her body grew stronger, progressed to deep, shuddering spasms that shook her whole frame. The pleasure radiated from deep within her belly, spreading outwards in wave after cresting wave, mounting, mounting - 

_Too much,_  she thought desperately, _too much, I can’t…_  but Sherlock had said, _Give me this_  and she had said yes, so she held on - and suddenly everything that had been building and coiling and threatening erupted,  _blazed_ along her synapses and crackled out to her extremities so that her back arched and her head fell backwards, and she flung her arms wide - 

“Oh, oh, Sher - oh, I, _ahhhhhhh -”_ and she could feel the release between her legs - _oh god, the mess,_ but she couldn’t think about that, because Sherlock was moaning deeply around her clitoris and pressing _hard_ with her tongue and going rigid with her own climax, and John’s cries came wild and loud and high, for several long seconds - ringing and triumphant, and she usually so silent - a howl that crumbled into ragged, gasping breaths, _oh god, I don’t, I don’t know how -_ this was it, she was flying apart, flying away in all directions, and who could, who would, who would bring her back again?  _oh god_ - 

_-_ and then sure hands settled on her hips, warm and steady, stroking up and down her sides, in the soft curve of her lower back, and she heard a velvety voice.

“Shhh,” it said, not to silence, but to calm. “ _So beautiful_ , John. You did it, you’re all right. John. _John.”_

With every stroke of Sherlock’s long fingers, John’s breathing settled, until the desperate gasps gave way to shattered panting, and finally to long, slow, quavering breaths. She came back to herself enough to focus on Sherlock’s words:  “You did it, you incredible woman, you did it.”

“What, made a huge mess?” She tried to laugh, but couldn’t lift her head or eyes to tell if she’d succeeded.

“ _Yes,”_ said Sherlock, having none of her deflection. “Exactly that. _Thank you.”_

And with that _thank you_ , John could come back, back into herself, and not be left to fly away. Because Sherlock was there, who would always bring her back again. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John began this night in control, drawing and driving Sherlock's body, Sherlock's pleasure. Now, though, Sherlock has driven John to be more vulnerable than she's ever let herself be with a lover. But this is Sherlock, so it's...safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because women writing sex for (mainly) other women is an act of resistance, and women writing women having sex with other women, for other women, is an even stronger act of resistance. Men reading this to participate in and support that resistance, welcome.
> 
> I suspect many of you are queer. And queer people speaking mainly to other queer people, and having communities centered around queer people, and their desires, is a source of strength. 
> 
> Un-beta'd, hardly edited. Written in the last day and a half. This is from the gut.

Sherlock helped her down, in the end; Sherlock, who had carried her up to a towering, soaring orgasm, that John wasn’t even sure she could have, but she had it, she had it because Sherlock was there to carry her, to draw it out of her and then to catch her, to catch and hold her and carry her back to earth;

Sherlock, who was awash now with John’s fluids, which had run down her chin and over her neck and into her tangled hair and on, so that they soaked the pillow, evidence of John’s courage and her triumph.

 _(Triumph? It was an orgasm._ But it had felt dangerous.)

Now John’s head was hanging heavy, her hands braced on the wall, knees on either side of Sherlock’s head, her body quaking in rhythm with her panting breaths, her arms and thighs beginning to quiver. She would have to move soon. She never wanted to move again.

But Sherlock was there, to help her down, with gentle hands stroking up over her hips from behind, supporting her back at the waist as she rolled them both over and eased John down to the pillow beside her.

Sherlock’s long fingers trailed over John’s skin as they lay in their lassitude, up her hip and lightly over her belly, circling her navel before trickling up between her breasts. Down, and a loop around the breast; Up, and a spiralling touch that made its ticklish way to the tip of John’s nipple.

John’s senses were by now so saturated, her nerves so lax that she barely trembled, only smiled, soft and brilliant, eyes closed and face aglow. “Mmmm, that’s nice.”

“ _You’re_ nice.” Sherlock’s finger came to rest on the beaded tip of John’s breast and began to move in tiny circles. “You’re lovely.”

“So’re you,” John slurred, still not opening her eyes. She stretched contentedly under the ghost of Sherlock’s touch, groggy with pleasure. “You could do that to me all night.”

“All night?” Sherlock shifted, two fingertips now, holding the nipple in the lightest pinch—no, a roll—no, a pinch, her movements infinitesimal, her touch feather-light. “ _All_ night?”

“Mmmm.” But in spite of her languor, she could feel tiny darts of pleasure rippling through her, little silvery minnows flitting, nipple to clit. “Oh.” The little fishes leapt. “ _Oh.”_

It was all so... _slight._ The tiny flutters flashed and skipped, never mounting, never growing, only flickering, _flickering,_ a glint of a breath and a twitch of a clit, and then still, until the next spark. Slight. Small. _Soft._

Soft, too, was Sherlock’s mouth as it brushed against John’s in wet, gentle passes. No tongue, no pressure, just _brush, brush, brush,_ full and a little messy, and so soft.

But the soft touches were the reeds through which the little silver fish darted and flashed, and John, spent though she was, felt a tightening in her pelvis, and her sleepy torpor was broken by a breath and a gasp, and her body rose a little, seeking.

Sherlock met the arch of her body with a firmer touch and a deeper kiss. Lying on her side, she slid an arm behind John’s neck and drew her close, so that Sherlock could curl her other hand over John’s shoulder and pluck at her flushed breasts, both at once.

John moaned, deep in her throat, and pressed her breasts up into Sherlock’s hands.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was hushed and awed, and little wonder. John’s hips were rocking in small, unbidden thrusts. Her spine was arched, her head thrown back, and there were little, wanton sounds emerging from her mouth with every breath, and she with neither strength nor will to silence them. She knew, dimly, that this was not how Sherlock knew her, that this kind of, of _abandon_ with a lover was, for her, unimaginable—and indeed, she could not conceive of ever offering this to anyone else. Had never come close, with anyone else.

But somehow, tonight, with Sherlock, it was safe.

It was safe to bare her throat and let her whimpers come unabated; it was safe to open her mouth and meet Sherlock’s tongue with wet, untidy swipes; it was safe to let her own arms lie, palms up, slack and passive at her sides, and spread her thighs wide; and when Sherlock trailed her fingers down to her slick and blossoming vulva, it was safe to rut and thrust against her hand.

John doesn’t _do_ this. John _controls_ , John _drives_ , it is _John_ who draws the sighs and writhing from her partner, from Sherlock, John who holds and cradles and presses and cages, John who murmurs endearments and encouragement, John who challenges, and who rewards. Who gazes, who admires.

(Who hides.)

John always, _always_ , held something in reserve. But tonight, John didn’t hide. John was open and bare and laid out and vulnerable, and she _gloried_ in it. She took all her need for control and reserve and handed it to Sherlock— _unreservedly._

So that two long, warm fingers could lie on either side of her swollen clitoris, and press in, and she could thrust and rut and wriggle, and a warm full mouth could press against hers and she could slather slick and sloppy kisses without a care. So that she could lift a breast into the flick and pinch of teasing fingers, and gasp and gasp, and bear down on the two fingers that curled inside her, and with her whole body seek the pleasure being offered—seek it, and then _accept it_.

Accept it, with legs and arms spread wide, with head thrown back, with hips thrust high, from this one impossible woman, in a broad, slack, slick, wet, _melting_ orgasm.

(Accept it, but have Sherlock whisper _thank you_ into her hair as, afterwards, she drifted, smiling and sleepy and safe.)

 


End file.
